


That I May Rise, and Stand

by catchmeifyoucreon



Series: Supernatural Shorts [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Again... sort of, Buried Alive, F/M, Hospitals, Purgatory, Reunions, Sort Of, Specifically the one about being ravished by God, Stream of Consciousness, The poetry of John Donne, Well... the undead, back from the dead, light sexual references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 18:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17965589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchmeifyoucreon/pseuds/catchmeifyoucreon
Summary: Meg struggles with metaphysics; digging your way out of Purgatory will do that to a girl.





	That I May Rise, and Stand

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally written for a good friend of mine, and posted on Tumblr; I'm collecting it here in slightly edited form. You can find the original [here](http://nyebevans.tumblr.com/post/51685281944/megcas-for-tyler-fuck-i-had-plans-for-this-they). Beware: there's a lot of imagery relating to being buried underground.

The dirt was everywhere – in her lungs (which didn’t exist), her eyes (which didn’t exist), her very fucking soul (which probably did exist, more was the pity).

There was nothing but the utter darkness and the choking sounds of someone drowning in earth. Moving somewhere – echoes of jabbing, stabbing, slashing sounds that seemed to do nothing.

 _Break me, burn me, bite me_  – how had that fucking poem gone? The one she’d joked was his poem, the self loathing poem, the _I don’t know how to live with the guilt_  poem. He’d gone very silent. It wasn’t so funny now.

 _Beat me, burn me_ , what were the fucking words?  _Break, blow, burn, and make me new._

Yes.

That was it. The mud cloyed in her nostrils, every breath flayed her alive.

Dead.

_I, like an usurped town, to another due._

They’d never even fucked. She’d never – he’d never –

A demon and an angel. _Betrothed unto your enemy._  The fucking poem was as bad as the dirt now, everywhere, anywhere, little knife fingers digging in. She’d kissed him in that room to steal his knife.

He’d kissed her with a porno trick she’d wanted to follow up. She could have taught him, she could have –

Five more. Ten more. Twenty more. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Years?

Would he be there? Would they be able to pick up where they left off? Between a rock and a hard place.

She would have laughed, were it not for the soil on her tongue. It tasted of dead souls, twisted monsters, freedom and cupcakes and sour apples and fucking  _nothing_. It didn’t taste of him: clean and inviting, warm, dangerous and goddamn fucking _hot_.

Speaking – thinking – of hot. She was fucking hot down here. Up here. Around about –  _here_. She jabbed at a spot of particularly unyielding earth, and then it was light. Blinding, hot, wild, white light. The earth was. Well, it was earth. She closed her eyes. The sun was out, directly ahead. There were screams from all around, campers, no doubt.

_Take me to you, imprison me, for I –_

She could see the headlines now. 'Woman babbling metaphysical poetry crawls up from the depths of some unknown realm having inhaled her weight in dirt’. Maybe not.

She threw her head up and fucking laughed at the world.

*

It was a hospital. They’d taken her to a  _hospital_ , run all sorts of weird tests, been utterly confused by their findings.

Meg was reclining in one of their beds, still occasionally coughing up a lungful of dirt into the little cardboard bowl they’d given her. She’d almost been a nurse, once.

She’d been there for two days when she felt it. That spine-numbing, ice hot certainty.

“You precious fucking unicorn,” she said as he strode through the door. He stood there without a word. Meg rolled her eyes and felt dirt catch on her lashes. “I crawl out of fucking Dante’s  _Inferno_  and all I get is broody silence? Kiss me, you fucking – you – you  _angel_.”

He did kiss her, and she coughed dirt into his mouth, and he paused to tell her that, actually, it was  _Purgatorio_ , not _Inferno_. They kissed until the nurses came in and told them that their behaviour was bordering on inappropriate.

“Bordering?” said Meg. “I should fucking think I’ve crossed the borders.”

**Author's Note:**

> The John Donne poem Meg quotes to herself is Holy Sonnet XIV (one of my absolute favourite poems):
> 
> _Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you  
>  As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;   
> That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend   
> Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.   
> I, like an usurp'd town to another due,   
> Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;   
> Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,   
> But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.   
> Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,   
> But am betroth'd unto your enemy;   
> Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,   
> Take me to you, imprison me, for I,   
> Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,   
> Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. _


End file.
